


Return on Investment

by thirty2flavors



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Atlas CEO Rhys, Character Study, Comedy, Gen, Light Angst, Post-Game(s), Team as Family, Vault Hunter Fiona, also majority shareholder fiona, bit-parts for sasha vaughn and yvette, everyone has a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-20 16:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11338836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirty2flavors/pseuds/thirty2flavors
Summary: Atlas needs money. Thanks to Felix, Fiona has four million dollars.Rhys will probably regret this.





	1. glass houses

**Author's Note:**

> When I was working on [a vision for the future](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10883691/chapters/24184677) it occurred to me that in someone else's game, Fiona (and Sasha) would both have money to burn. This... kind of spiraled out of control from there. Can't believe I've now written two fics with the basic premise of "man seeks business investors", but here we are.
> 
> Kudos to @shinyopals, @firstofoctober and @valoscope on Tumblr for humouring this idea long enough for it to grow as it has. And to CBC's Dragon's Den for my legitimate business degree.

The first million of Felix’s nine is spent getting Fiona and Rhys back to Pandora after the Vault transports them half-way across the galaxy.

It’s not how Fiona imagined spending her first million dollars. It’s also not how she imagined her first visit to another planet. Or who she imagined visiting it with.

It does put an end to Rhys’ whining when he learns she has millions of dollars cash in her back pocket, though, so at least there's that.

“I didn't think Vaults were supposed to cost you money,” Rhys points out, ever so helpfully, as Fiona parts with a larger chunk of change than she's ever previously held.

“This was a dud,” Fiona reasons. “Obviously. The next one I find’ll be better.”

“Seriously? You still wanna be a Vault Hunter? After all this? You’re not all… Vault-ed out?”

Rhys looks at her like he's pretty sure that's stupid. Truthfully Fiona is pretty sure he's got a point, but it's not like he's one to talk.

“Hey, people with glass career ambitions shouldn’t throw stones.”

Rhys smirks. “Yeah, not sure that figure of speech really held up for you.”

“Whatever, just… shut up. You're lucky I'm nice enough to pay for your ticket, too.”

“Technically that’s money you stole from me and Vaughn, so…”

Fiona flips him off, upgrades her ticket to first class for the leg home and leaves him in coach.

That leaves eight million to split with Sasha.

——

Sudden wealth agrees with Sasha—or at least, Sasha agrees with sudden wealth.

She spends a chunk right away, on a tricked-out caravan that makes the old one look like a clown car, a sound system powerful enough to wake the dead, and at least a dozen guns that individually cost more money than any gun has any business costing.

Fiona understands the kid-in-a-candy-store impulse (Sasha nearly buys out one of those, too), but she’s older, arguably a little wiser, and definitely more patient. Besides, she might end up teleported across the universe again. 

So instead she takes her four million, buys a new hat, and waits for an opportunity to present itself.

——

Rhys gets them all together with such forced nonchalance that it can only mean one thing: he wants something, and he is nervous to ask for it.

Fiona knows this, but she decides to let it play out anyway. Watching him squirm is funny.

Hours later, when Sasha and Vaughn are preoccupied with Sasha’s new motorbike, Rhys finally spits it out, and even though Fiona _knew_ there was a request coming, she nearly chokes on her beer.

“You want me to what?”

“Invest,” he repeats, like it sounds any less insane the second time around. When her eyes remain as wide as dinner plates, he raises both index fingers. “I know, I know, I know, just—hear me out—”

He launches into a well-prepared sales pitch/slideshow/shameless plea, of which Fiona absorbs about twenty per cent through her haze of surprise, confusion and bewilderment.

When he’s finished, Fiona watches him closely through narrowed eyes. Her first question is, “Did you ask Sasha the same thing?”

“No.” He shifts in his seat under her scrutiny. “It seemed like a bad idea to… mix business and pleasure.” 

“God.” Fiona just about gags. “I’ll give you the money if you promise never to call my sister ‘pleasure’ ever again.”

Rhys is disturbingly unperturbed, tilting his head with a grin. “Is that a deal?”

“I dunno…” Fiona tilts her chair onto its back legs and pushes back her hat so she can stare up in proper contemplation. “Would that mean I’d own Atlas?”

“Nah, there’s lots of different ways you can do it, you don’t have to be involved at all. Could just be a loan with interest, or—”

“I wanna own it,” Fiona decides.

“You… what?” he sputters. She can just about see the gears in his head grind to a halt—or the circuit boards, or whatever cybernetic garbage he’s got implanted in there. “No, you don’t.”

“Uh, yeah I do.”

“...Why?”

Fiona shrugs. She lets the front legs of her chair hit back against the ground with a thunk.

“Sounds cool, doesn’t it? Fiona: Vault Hunter, business owner.” She spreads both hands in the air as if she’s unfurling an imaginary banner.

Rhys stares at her, dumbfounded. After a second, he narrows his eyes. “You were that kid on the playground who had no interest in the toy truck until somebody else was playing with it, weren’t you?”

“Dunno. Didn’t grow up with a lot of toys. Or a playground.” She pouts, aiming for a guilt trip, but she must fumble the landing, because Rhys just rolls his eyes.

“You don’t want to own Atlas,” he insists.

“Sure I do.”

“Look, the interest rate I’ll give you—”

“Nope.” She leans across the table, her chin cradled in her bridged fingers, smirking. “Wanna own it.”

Rhys leans forward too, with an equally snide smirk, like he’s hoping to catch her in a bluff. Fiona realizes two things in quick succession: that this has become a game of chicken, and that she isn’t about to lose. 

“Really? That’s _really_ what you want. You _really_ want equity, not interest, or a portion of the profits, or—”

“Really.” She slides one hand free and extends it across the table. “So, deal?”

Rhys’ narrowed, mismatched eyes study her face and then her outstretched hand, his jaw working in wordless contemplation. 

Finally, with an aggravated huff, he grabs her hand in his. “Deal.”

Fiona grins, and tries to make sure her grip is as tight as his, even if her efforts are wasted on his prosthetic.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him, “I’ll still let you do all the work.”

Rhys shakes his head as he lets go, scowling. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” She points a finger in mock offense. “I’m a _rich_ asshole.”

——

Once she signs on the dotted line, Fiona owns, technically, 51% of Atlas’ outstanding shares.

 _Majority shareholder._ It sounds like it pains Rhys to say it.

Sasha asks what that means, exactly, and Fiona sort of shrugs, and Rhys groans very loudly and hits his forehead on the table.

——

If Atlas were a baby, Fiona realizes, she would be its luxurious, jet-setting mother, travelling the world on a whim, and Rhys would be the live-in nanny doing all the actual childrearing.

Rhys does not appreciate this metaphor as much as Fiona does.

He also doesn’t appreciate when Fiona refers to Atlas as her “hobby”, her “side hustle”, her “pet project”, or basically anything that describes it as “hers” at all.

This, of course, only encourages her to do it more often.

For the most part, though, she doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about Atlas. Vault Hunting is a pretty preoccupying gig. Rhys sends her updates, sometimes—because he thinks she might care or because he wants to make her feel guilty for her uninvolvement, she’s not really sure—and she sort of half-skims them. She hasn’t got the head for business, anyway. She’d rather get shot at than read a quarterly report. Literally.

“That’s why I’ve got loyal servants like you,” she tells him.

If looks could kill, and if those killing powers worked even through a vidlink, she’d definitely be dead by now.

——

Fiona leans back against the wall, one foot braced against it, and buffs her nail polish while a nervous-looking woman in a lab coat turns her back to Fiona, hand at her ear.

“Hi, yes, sorry to bother you,” the woman says, “it’s Sophie, from R&D?”

There must be a pause on the line, because Sophie shoots a skittish glance over her shoulder at Fiona.

Fiona waves.

Sophie turns away again immediately, and Fiona shakes her head. She isn’t even trying to be intimidating.

“Yes, hi,” Sophie says again, apparently transferred to another line. “I—no, no, there’s nothing on fire this time. There’s just, um, there’s a woman here? Who wants a tour of the lab?”

Fiona wonders if Sophie is one of the so-called Children of Helios, and if so, exactly how long it’s going to take for those children to stop hiding in their parents’ basement.

“I know we don’t do tours,” Sophie says, sounding a little irritated at the insinuation. It’s the most Fiona has liked her so far. “But she says she’s—well, she…” Sophie casts another helpless glance at Fiona, like she resents what Fiona’s presence is making her say. “She says she owns the place.” Sophie is still watching Fiona from the corner of her eye as she nods slowly to the voice on the other end of the line. “Right. Okay. Will do.”

Finally, Sophie turns to face Fiona properly.

“He says he’ll be down in a minute,” says Sophie.

Fiona grins, pushing herself up from the wall. “Great.”

——

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” is the first thing Rhys says to her, and Fiona snorts.

“Hi, Rhys, I’m fine, good to see you, too, it’s been so long,” she says pointedly, but he ignores her, moving straight to the door, his palm held out to interface with the control panel.

She watches him work, head tilted. They haven’t seen much of each other in recent months, each caught up in their personal whirlwinds. Fiona is finally starting to earn some respect, and Atlas is taking its first fledgling steps as an actual, functional business. Again. Vault Hunter, CEO. It’s been… busy. 

The Rhys in front of her now is even starting to look the part, all expensive clothing and serious facial expressions and the perpetual vibration of someone who’s consumed way beyond the recommended daily intake of caffeine.

Fiona knows him, though, and she’s not so easily fooled.

“It’s really… not a great time for you to be here,” he admits to her as the door slides open. “I’ve got advertising proofs to approve, financials to look at, a couple big meetings that really need to go well, and shepherding you around is not exactly the prep I had planned.”

“ _Shepherding_?” Fiona counters, following him through the doors. “Thought you’d be excited to show off.”

Rhys smiles thinly. “Yeah, well, you know, I would be! Just… kinda busy… trying not to lose all your money and torpedo my own career. Again.”

That sounds more like the Rhys she knows, always a little more awkward and uncertain than he tries to pretend. Fiona grins and claps him on the shoulder as they head into the lab.

“Tough. I want to see what my money’s paying for.”

——

Her money, it turns out, is paying for a number of things. The Atlas of yesteryear had a lot of irons in the fire, and in that regard, at least, Rhys’ is no different.

There’s a limited line of guns, the expensive sort that collectors pay exorbitant amounts of money to never use. Fiona asks if these were made explicitly to please Sasha, and Rhys gets a dumb look on his face and shrugs, which she takes as a yes.

They don’t keep the plantlife in the lab, he explains, which makes sense, but he assures her there’s a lot of it. Fiona remembers ten-foot carnivorous flowers and decides she’s not really missing out.

“Is it all still so… aggressive?” she asks, and Rhys sort of grins.

“Aggressive plantlife really agrees with Pandora,” he says, which she has to admit sounds true enough. “We’re working on fruit and stuff though, you can try some later.” Then something catches his eye, and he waves her forward eagerly. “Fi, come here.”

He introduces her to a frazzled woman named Hannah, standing on the outside of a tiny observation room. Through the window, a small, nondescript robot is holding what looks like a glorified button. Painted on the floor are two separate, coloured circles.

“We’ve been trying to learn more about the teleportation technology from the Vault of the Traveler,” Hannah tells her, and over Hannah’s shoulder, Rhys wiggles his eyebrows excitedly.

“Quick, easy interplanetary travel, right?” he prompts.

“Easy is one word for it.” Fiona tilts her head and raises an eyebrow. “Another is nauseating. Disorienting. Terrifying.”

Rhys dismisses it with a shrug. “I mean, it’s... probably less terrifying if you know it’s going to happen.” He sidles up next to her, full-on salesman. “Just think, though! Pandora to Dionysus in ten seconds.”

“Yeah, Dionysus will love that,” Fiona jokes, but it does sound pretty cool, now that he’s said it.

He scratches the back of his neck. “Well… we can worry about that later. It’s a work in progress.”

“I made some adjustments,” Hannah says, and then launches into a technical explanation that sounds like gibberish to Fiona. Rhys makes a good show of looking very attentive, but Fiona’s pretty sure he has no idea what any of it means, either.

By the end of it, Hannah’s holding up a remote control, and all three of them are watching the robot in the observation room curiously as Hannah holds up a remote control switch.

“It’s supposed to reappear in that blue circle, there,” Hannah explains.

The little robot dematerializes from its red circle and rematerializes almost instantly, in a bright flash of light, three feet into the air and nowhere near the blue circle. Before it can even hit the ground, it disappears again, reappears elsewhere, faster and faster, with non-stop bursts of blinding light, clattering around the room as it collides with the walls, floor and ceiling.

Finally, there’s a memorable slam against the window that sends them all flinching backwards. Hannah flips the switch the other way, and the robot falls from mid-air and lands on the floor.

Fiona cringes.

“It doesn’t, um, there’s no AI in that, or anything,” Rhys says hastily, though he looks a little horrified too. “It’s fine.”

With matching, pained thumbs up, they leave Hannah to her work.

Along with the guns and the experimental teleportation, there’s a variety of miscellaneous tech, small-ticket items that Rhys shows to Fiona with all the enthusiasm of a teenager working part-time at an amusement park. 

Every employee they run into knows Rhys, and Rhys knows all of them, well enough that she thinks he might be cheating, but she never catches his ECHO eye lighting up.

None of them know Fiona, which leaves her the great pleasure of introducing herself as Rhys’ boss, reveling in their look of confusion and Rhys’ scowl.

“I mean they really _should_ have heard of me,” Fiona tells him.

“They don’t have reason to,” Rhys says. “It’s not like you actually do any work here.”

“You could have posters. ‘The Woman Who Made This All Possible’.” When that fails to get a response, she nudges him with her elbow. “Or a statue.”

“I’m not building you a statue,” says Rhys flatly, a disappointing underreaction. 

It’s unusual for Rhys not to take Fiona’s bait, and she frowns. “I feel like your heart’s not in this.”

Rhys ignores that, too. “Last lab’s up here, let’s just finish up.”

There’s not much to look at in the last section of the lab, except for various computer displays she doesn’t understand, some whiteboards covered in indecipherable writing, and various hunks of metal in various states of completion, largely unrecognizable to Fiona. She peers at a printed list of specifications, trying to make sense of it, her eyebrows knitted together.

“Is this an… arm?” she asks finally. When there’s no answer, she prompts, “Rhys?”

Nothing. When she looks up, it’s obvious she’s lost Rhys’ attention. He’s standing in the hall, staring in deep concentration at some display projected from his palm, his golden eye flickering wildly.

“Hey. Rhys.”

No luck. Fiona rolls her eyes.

“Mr. Robot,” she tries again, and this time she reaches up to flick the port at the side of his head.

The display from his palm flickers for a second, and Rhys reacts like he’s been shot, jumping away from her with a yelp and flailing both arms uselessly.

“God, don’t _do_ that,” he scolds, glaring, and Fiona would maybe feel a little bit bad about it if his reaction were not so funny. “What? What do you want?”

“Food,” she says, aware of the sudden rumble in her stomach. “Where’s this fruit you promised me? Lunchtime!”

“Oh. Right.” He points to the exit doors behind him. “There’s a cafeteria that way. Keep going, hang a left, can’t miss it. You’ll find something.”

He turns to go the other way, already focusing on his palm display again, and Fiona catches him by the shoulder.

“What, you’re not _shepherding_ me?” she asks.

“Can’t. Sorry. Busy.” He doesn’t even look up as pulls out of her grip and waves her off. “I think you can manage lunch on your own, Vault Hunter.”

Fiona watches him go and shakes her head.

“Jackass,” she mutters.

——

“This is Atlas food, and I _own_ Atlas, mostly, so if you think about it, this is really _already_ my food, and I shouldn’t have to pay.”

Fiona says it all clearly and slowly, with such a winning smile that surely no one could deny her.

The man serving food at the canteen does not look convinced. “Lady, I don’t even know who you are.”

Fiona’s about to explain why that’s really not her fault, and she’ll be speaking to the CEO about that, because it seems wrong, really, that she not get her due, and—

“It’s fine, Steve,” comes a voice from behind her. “She’s with me, just put it on my tab.”

Turning to face her unlikely saviour, Fiona finds Yvette, eyebrow arched, hands on her hips, and lips pulled into a smile. Steve mumbles something about executives looking out for each other, but he hands Fiona her tray of food without further complaint.

“Thanks,” says Fiona brightly, after Yvette’s grabbed her own food and lead them to a table. “Rhys basically abandoned me,” she adds. 

Not that she’s feeling resentful, or anything.

“Yeah, he’s been a ghost recently,” Yvette says, sliding into a booth. “He always gets like this when he’s busy. He’d probably sleep in his office if your sister would let him get away with it. Vaughn and I used to stage interventions at Hyperion.”

The second she’s said it, she looks like she regrets it, a shadow passing over her face at the mention of Helios. Fiona pretends not to notice, studying her plate of food intensely. 

“But anyway,” says Yvette, abruptly trying to regain control of the conversation, “I didn’t know you were visiting today!”

“It was a surprise.” Fiona takes a swig of her drink through her straw and raises her eyebrows. “You know, like a secret shopper. Gotta say, though, my tour guide gets a failing grade.”

Yvette laughs at that, and then she starts to catch Fiona up, filling her in on all the details Rhys had been too distracted to bother with. Atlas is doing a lot of work with cybernetics, Yvette explains, and at various price points. There are lots of people on Pandora who could use prosthetics like Rhys’ own, but not many who could pay for them. Trying to find the right balance of dexterity, function and affordability is the primary focus and current struggle of the R&D team.

“One of our suppliers is a real dick, too,” Yvette adds, matter-of-factly. “I know he’s trying to overcharge us. I’ve worked with him before.” She rips her piece of toast in half and points at Fiona with it. “That’s one of the meetings Rhys has been hyperventilating about.”

“He didn’t tell me any of this,” Fiona says, pulling the lid off of her soda cup to chase down the last drops of her drink with her straw.

Yvette only shrugs. “Like I said, he gets like that.” She pops the second half of her toast into her mouth. “Besides—it must be pretty boring compared to what you’re up to these days. You must have amazing stories.”

Fiona pushes the ice around in her empty cup. Vault Hunting, not unlike conning, is about ten percent the sweet thrill of victory, ninety percent guesswork and fumbling to cheat death in ways that are embarrassing to think about later.

Still, she doesn’t like to spoil the illusion.

“Oh yeah,” she says, looking up. “Totally. Great stories. The best stories.” Already she’s mentally fishing for anecdotes that lend themselves to her… more creative impulses. “This one time—”

Yvette shifts closer in anticipation, but when she glances at her watch she blanches. “Shit. Hold that thought. I should probably get back to work.” She rises easily from the booth and takes her tray with her. “Come see me before you leave, all right? I wanna hear about the Vault Hunting.”

“Will do.” Fiona leans back in her chair, one arm draped over the side of it. “Thanks for lunch.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Yvette winks as she drops her tray on the pile and walks backwards to the door. “Rhys pays that tab anyway.”


	2. throwing stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Everyone is ushered out of the room with a wave and a smile, and then Rhys rounds on Fiona as soon as the door is closed._
> 
>  
> 
> _“What the hell is wrong with you?”_
> 
>  --
> 
> Rhys and Fiona spending time together reaches its natural conclusion: uncomfortable emotions and a lot of yelling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up about twice as long as I expected and more than double the size of chapter 1, whoops. Turns out everyone had more feelings than I had originally accounted for. Correspondingly, there's a lot more drama, character study and (light) angst in this chapter than in the previous.

The administrative assistant outside Rhys’ office is the first person to know Fiona by name.

“Oh, right! Fiona!” he says, and it’s pretty gratifying, honestly. Then he adds “Sasha’s sister!” and the feeling disappears. “Uh…” He glances back at the office door. “He's pretty busy, but Sasha usually just goes in whenever she wants, so…”

“Good enough for me,” Fiona reasons. Before the admin can argue otherwise, she winds around him and lets herself into Rhys’ office. 

When she enters, Rhys is pacing back and forth behind his desk, talking to and gesturing at the air. Fiona assumes he’s on a call, but then he stops dead at the sight of her, turns pink and runs his hand through his hair.

She grins.

“Were you talking to yourself?”

“...No.”

“Or did you stick something inadvisable into your head again?”

“No! No, I was just, uh, I was… rehearsing.” He mumbles the last word, no doubt hoping in vain she won’t catch it. Then he seems to remember his own annoyance and shakes his head. “What are you doing here? Weren’t you going to go eat something?”

“Uh, yeah, I did that. For like an hour. Two hours ago.” Unbidden, she plops down into the chair across from his desk and narrows her eyes. “Did _you_ eat anything, beanpole?”

Rhys remains standing and folds his arms across his chest. “You’re not my mom.”

Fiona snorts. “So that’s a no, then.” She tilts her head, considering him. “You probably should. Your usual ghostly pallor is even more phantasmic today.”

“Phantasmic?” he repeats. “I’m fine, okay, I’ll eat later, I’m…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know you’re having a real trouble grasping this, but I am very busy right now. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour to talk about finances for this quarter—”

Fiona fakes a snore.

“—and after that I’ve got to go convince a supplier who hates me to stop price gouging us because we need to ramp up production so we can increase sales so we can increase revenue so we can keep expanding, and we can’t do _that_ if he won’t play ball.”

She’s pretty sure he’s saying all this for his own benefit, not hers, but at least he’s not technically talking to himself anymore. 

“Why’s this guy hate you?” she asks, zeroing in on the one bit of interesting information buried in there. “I mean, not that there’s a shortage of reasons, but like, what are his top five?”

“Ha ha. I don’t know, Fiona, I didn’t ask for a list.” Rhys lifts his hands in exasperation. “Too young? Inexperienced? Thinks I’m an idiot? Last time we spoke he called me ‘kid’, like, seven times.” He folds his arms, scowling at nothing in particular. “I _hate_ that.”

She puts on a mock pout. “Aw, is he being mean to you? Do I need to call his parents?” 

Rhys’ scowl turns its attention to her. “Why are you here, Fiona?” 

“I was in the neighbourhood, thought I’d drop by.” She shrugs. “Don’t sound so thrilled about it.”

“In the neighbourhood? You don’t visit for months, you barely stay in touch, and then you’re ‘in the neighbourhood’? That’s… no, you know what, nevermind.” He sighs. “It’s not good timing, okay? Sasha’s not even here this week. She got a gig as a guest DJ in Brightmere.” 

“I know that,” Fiona says hotly. “You think I don’t know what Sasha’s up to?”

“How should I know? When’s the last time you even spoke to her?”

“Two days ago, actually,” she snaps. “Called me from the road.”

That takes some of the righteous wind out of his sails. “Oh. Well. That’s... good.” 

“You’re not going to watch her.” It’s an accusation, not a question. 

“I can’t.” The disappointment sounds genuine, so she decides she doesn’t need to give him hell. “I wanted to,” he adds hastily, “but it’s a day and a half travel and I’m just…”

“Busy.” Fiona raises an eyebrow. “Right.”

“Yeah.” He drops his arms to his sides and lets his shoulders slump in exhaustion. Remembering what Yvette had said, Fiona wonders if he really has been sleeping in his office in Sasha’s absence. “Vaughn’s going,” he adds, sort of pathetically. And then, “Wait, why aren’t _you_ there? She's always talking about how she never sees you anymore.”

But something on his desk catches her eye instead: advertising proofs.

“Speak of the devil…” She tugs one towards her and holds it aloft. “You got Sasha to be your poster girl?”

If Rhys is embarrassed by this, he doesn’t show it. “She wanted to do it.” 

Fiona raises an incredulous eyebrow, staring at the print-out. 

“ _Sasha_ wanted her face splashed across a bunch of corporate advertisements?”

“Specifically, I think she wanted to hold the guns.”

She looks to the other sheets scattered around the desk, all featuring Sasha posing with different guns alongside corporate branding. Incongruity aside, Fiona has to admit the ads look nice; no one can hold a gun with quite the same mix of reverence and disquieting bloodthirst as Sasha.

But these are the most recent pictures of Sasha she’s seen, and the unfamiliarity of it—a new hairstyle, different clothes, that big Atlas logo in the corner—makes her stomach squirm with guilt. She might have spoken to Sasha two days ago, but Sasha had been the one to call her. 

“My little sister the sellout.” Fiona shakes her head, a proud grin tugging the corner of her mouth. “Guess it’s nice to see her face on something other than a wanted poster.” She looks over at Rhys. “Hey, are there more of these? I wanna see ‘em. Or, ooh—are there outtakes? Like where her hair’s in her eye or she’s making a weird face or you can see up her nose or something? ‘Cause I need all of those. You know. For sister stuff.”

He lets out a long breath through his teeth. “Sure, whatever, Fiona, but not now, all right? I’m—”

“I swear to God if you say the word ‘busy’ one more time—”

“I have things to do.”

“Okay, that’s basically a synonym, that doesn’t count.”

Rhys rests both hands on his desk and leans towards her. “Will you please just leave so I can prepare for this meeting?” He’s basically begging, which is embarrassing for both of them. “Fiona. _Please_.” 

It’s uncomfortable. She pushes her chair back to stand up.

“All right, sheesh. Go back to talking to yourself.” 

—

Keeping herself occupied at Atlas without Rhys or Sasha turns out to be a Herculean task.

She talks to Rhys’ assistant for a while, trying (and failing) to wheedle funny stories out of him. She gets a latte with Yvette—Athena was right, they are good—and then wanders the hallways until she gets politely and not-so-politely redirected. 

There’s just nothing to do. There’s nothing to scrounge for, no threats to check over her shoulder for, no bandits or skags or snipers or even pickpockets. It’s quiet. Relaxed, even.

Fiona’s not used to relaxed. 

Eventually she gives up, and goes to wait for Rhys. From her spot lurking outside the boardroom door, she can just about hear the meeting inside. 

She’s no expert in corporate meetings, but it sounds excruciating. 

Rhys is saying something involving dull phrases like “projected earnings”, and every time he finishes speaking there’s nothing but resounding silence. She’s not sure if it’s stress or nerves or sleep deprivation, but it’s like his entire personality has vacated the premises and left behind an empty corporate shell. Everyone else is probably asleep, Fiona reasons. Or comatose. Or dead. 

She decides to stage a rescue mission.

Rhys is mid-sentence when she lets herself into the room, talking to a crowd of about a dozen of the most boring-looking people Fiona has ever seen, and he freezes at the sight of her. She can practically see the fight-or-flight response forming in his mind. It’s hilarious. 

“…Fiona,” he says after a second. “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us.” His smile looks more like a bad alien parody of human expression. “Everyone, this is—”

“Fiona, obviously,” she finishes for him, sliding her way forward to perch on an empty corner of the table, shaking the hands of everyone in her vicinity. “Majority shareholder, Vault Hunter. Hey, hi, how you doing?”

She winks at the woman to her left, who immediately turns bright red.

“…Right,” says Rhys, the polite veneer sounding faker by the second. “Anyway, Fiona, we were just about to—”

“Oh, don’t mind me.” Fiona hops down from the table and crosses the room to Rhys with an easy, relaxed grin. “Just here to observe.” To the others, she adds, “Got to make sure this one’s taking care of my company properly, right? Shepherding Atlas to a brighter future and all.”

She slings an arm around his shoulder. Rhys bends stiffly and reluctantly into it, like a tree in a breeze.

“Ha ha,” fake-laughs Rhys, so unconvincing that it takes all of Fiona’s considerable experience not to guffaw for real. “Right. Thanks, Fiona.” He moves to extract himself from her grip, and Fiona tightens her hold, until he eventually ducks under her arm and straightens up again. “Anyway, as I was saying, we—”

“Hold on,” asks one of the men around the table. “Sorry. I just wanted to…” He hedges nervously for a second, then turns to Fiona. “Did you say you were a Vault Hunter?”

“Oh, yeah.” 

There’s a murmur of interest around the table. The woman she’d winked at leans forward hesitantly. 

“Isn’t that… dangerous?” she asks. 

Fiona grins at her audience. 

“Absolutely. I mean, it’s definitely not for everyone. And that’s good, I mean, you need someone—” she glances at Rhys, whose jaw is clenched so tight he must be grinding his teeth to dust “—to keep the home fires burning, right? But then, I’ve just never been the type to sit behind a desk, you know? I’ve got to be out there. In the action.” 

Everyone in the room hangs on her every word, entranced as she knew they would be. 

That is, everyone except Rhys, who, in the interest of professionalism, has forgone glaring and settled instead on sending her telepathic death threats with his eyes. 

Fiona brushes back her coloured hair and puts her hands on her hips. “This one time…”

—-

Everyone is ushered out of the room with a wave and a smile, and then Rhys rounds on Fiona as soon as the door is closed.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Fiona’s still smiling as she shrugs. “Come on, they loved that. That was definitely the most fun meeting they’ve ever had.”

“It wasn’t a meeting! We didn’t talk about anything! It was just you, bragging about stories that were obviously lies—”

“They weren’t lies—”

“You did _not_ fly here on a rakk.”

“—they were artistic interpretations, and you were dying in there, anyway.”

“Dying in there?” he repeats incredulously. “It’s not a stand-up routine, it’s not supposed to be fun, I was doing my job—”

“—and no one was listening, because it was mind-numbing.” Before he can squawk out an objection, Fiona waves her hand. “So you were off your game today, big deal. Who cares? Reschedule in a week when you’ve pulled the stick out of your ass. You need to lighten up.”

Rhys gestures rigidly at the air, like a wind-up toy whose springs are coiled too tightly. “Wait, I’m sorry, what? Lighten up? _That’s_ what you think the problem is here?”

“Uh, yeah. You’ve been kind of a jerk all day. Take a breath. Have a nap. Do some yoga.”

“I’ve been—I’ve been a jerk all day?” 

“Big time.”

“I—you’ve—you’ve—” 

Outrage short-circuits him for a second and he fumbles for words. Fiona waits, her eyebrows raised and her hands balled on her hips. 

“You don’t visit for months and then you show up _out of nowhere_ , demanding to be babysat—”

“ _Babysat?!_ ” 

“—inserting yourself in everything—”

“I’m trying to help you, you _idiot_ —”

“No you’re not! You’re just being difficult, like you always are, because you think it’s sooo funny, wisecrackin’ Fiona, what a kidder—”

Fiona rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “Oh my God, you are unbearable.”

“—but it’s not a joke to me, okay?” 

Something other than anger bleeds into his voice, and it startles Fiona enough that she bites back the retort she’d been planning. The pink hue is back in his cheeks again, but he forges on. 

“I get it, you’re a cool Vault Hunter now and you’re above it all and I’m an idiot and all my dreams are stupid and watching me fail is hilarious, but this is important to me. It’s _really_ important to me. And it’s been super difficult to get anyone to take me seriously, and you wandering into meetings unannounced and talking down to me in front of my employees isn’t helping.”

Bright red with embarrassment but stubborn nonetheless, he holds her gaze and waits—for her contrition, probably, or maybe an apology. But Fiona says nothing, and for a second they just stare at each other. 

She breaks first, looking down to study her nails. Rhys sighs miserably, slumping back against the table and hides his face in his hand. 

The awkward silence is put out of its misery when Rhys gets a call from his assistant. Rhys answers with a tired-sounding, “Yeah?”

“Uh, hi,” says his assistant. “There’s a Nelson here to see you.”

“Oh. Right.” Rhys scrubs at his eyes with his free hand. “Thanks. Be right there.”

He closes his palm to disconnect the call and shoves himself up from the table. 

“Nelson,” Fiona says, wrinkling her nose at the name and looking up from her nails. “That’s the guy overcharging you, right?”

“That’s him.” From the looks of it, he’s somehow reached a new level of exhaustion. “Listen, I’ve got to go grovel at this guy, so can we—”

“I’m gonna go talk to him,” she announces, moving for the door.

“What?!” That shocks some life back into Rhys, who springs in front of her. “No— _Fiona_ —”

“Ten minutes,” she says calmly, slipping around him. “Maybe fifteen. It’ll be fine. Just gonna introduce myself.”

Rhys catches her by the arm, apparently desperate enough that anger is beyond him, replaced instead by wide-eyed panic. “Seriously, Fiona, this guy already has no respect for me, you can’t—”

“Rhys.” She pries herself out of his grip. “Deep breaths. Trust me.”

Judging from the horrified stare he sends her as she leaves the room, he probably doesn’t. 

—

She leaves Nelson behind in a meeting room for Rhys, who—perhaps unsurprisingly—does not return her smile or thumbs up when she passes him in the hallway. 

By the time Rhys makes it back to his office afterward, Fiona has set up camp there. Reclined as far as she can in his comfy chair with her feet propped up on his desk, she’s bordering on a catnap when he walks in.

He looks… kind of shellshocked. He walks to the chair across from her and collapses into it in a daze.

Fiona gives him a second to collect himself. When he still hasn’t said anything, she prompts, “So?”

“That… went well.” From the sound of it, he can’t quite believe it. “That went really well.”

“Good.” She reaches for the tiny pile of fruit she’s amassed in the corner of his desk, picks up one of the little pink ones, and throws it to him. “Catch.”

Still dazed, Rhys doesn’t react quick enough; it bounces comically off his forehead and lands in his lap, where he blinks at it. Almost in slow motion he picks it up and starts tossing it back and forth across his lap. A little line forms on his forehead.

It’s obvious what he’s going to ask, but she waits him out, helping herself to a piece of fruit in the meantime. He’ll get there. Probably.

Eventually Rhys looks up at her, the shocking pink of the uneaten fruit reflected in his silver hand. “What did you say to him?”

“You said he didn’t respect you.” She bites into the fruit. “So I impressed him.”

Rhys raises an eyebrow. “You told him you flew here on a rakk?” he asks, and this time when he says it he sounds amused rather than annoyed.

“Nope.” She swallows her mouthful of fruit and licks the stickiness from her lips. “Told the truth this time. Cross my heart.” With the back of her hand, she wipes away a stray fleck of juice from her chin. “These are pretty good, actually,” she says as an afterthought, waving the fruit.

“Thanks.” Finally he takes a bite himself, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “So,” he starts, “if it wasn’t your ‘artistic interpretation’, what did—”

“Well, mostly we talked about you.”

Rhys inhales his piece of fruit the wrong way and spends twenty seconds coughing to recover. 

“You—what?” he squeaks out when he’s done choking, eyes watering. 

“Yep.” Fiona tilts back in her chair again, purposefully watching him from the corner of her eye. “Told him you basically built Atlas back up from scratch. Told him you killed a Vault monster. Told him you ripped out all your cybernetics and then put ‘em all back in by yourself.” Her cheeks feel a little warm, maddeningly, so she focuses on the ceiling and shrugs. “Told him you’re made of a lot stronger stuff than you look and there’s no one else I’d trust with my money.”

When she chances a look at Rhys, he’s gone nearly as pink as the fruit in his hand. Which, admittedly, is a little rewarding. She keeps her own expression casual and impassive.

“...Oh,” he manages, high-pitched and stunned. 

“I didn’t mention Jack, or anything, don’t worry,” she continues. “Kept it general, you know.” 

“Oh,” he says again. “Um. Well. That’s…” He reaches up to run his fingers through his hair. “Thank you.”

Fiona tugs the brim of her hat in acknowledgment.

“Seriously,” he says. “That means a lot, Fi.”

Then the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile, and there’s the puppydog eyes. He’s so goddamned, painfully earnest sometimes. Fiona contemplates throwing her half-eaten fruit at him, just to push things back into familiar territory.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get… weird,” she mutters. Lest he do something else awkward, she tugs open one of his desk drawers with her heel, then reaches in to pull out two whiskey glasses.

Rhys starts stuttering like an idiot almost immediately. “Where did you get—I don’t keep—”

“Heads up,” says Fiona. 

She slides one glass down the desk towards him, smirking when he frantically lunges forward to catch it.

“Will you stop testing my hand-eye coordination?” He sounds a little irritated again, which is comforting. 

“You need the practice.” 

Pulling the flask from her pocket, she pours them both a drink. Rhys gawks.

“You keep alcohol in that?” he sputters. “I thought it was water. You live in the desert. You should really have water. Please tell me you usually have water. That’s just going to dehydrate you.” 

“Will you shut up and have a drink with me?”

“Technically this is still the work day, so I…” Fiona narrows her eyes and he picks up his glass and clinks it with hers. “Right. Yep. Drinking.”

They take a drink simultaneously. Fiona holds it in her mouth for a moment before she swallows, appreciating the burn; Rhys, on the other hand, presses his lips together like he’s trying very hard not to make a face at how strong it is. 

For a few seconds, they sit in a rare companionable silence. Fiona finishes her fruit and wipes her fingers on her pants, and Rhys slides forward in his chair, resting both elbows on his desk and looking down at his drink, lost in thought. 

“You know, it’s weird,” he says after a moment, running his hand along the desk, his metal fingers tracing the grain of the wood. “I wanted this job for so long. Like, embarrassing, weird-childhood-aspirations long. And now I have it. And it’s great. But it’s…”

He trails off again, and Fiona waits, patient and curious. He tips back the rest of his drink and lets the empty glass thud against his desk before he looks over at her like he’s ready to impart some deep dark secret.

“It’s _really hard_ ,” he admits, then sinks his head down to rest against his arm. “Oh my God, Fiona, it’s so hard.”

She snorts into her drink, and he points a blind but accusing finger in her direction.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he whines, his voice muffled by his sleeve.

“I’m not,” says Fiona, which is true, mostly. She reaches over to top up her own glass and refill his. Rhys tugs it closer without looking up. “But seriously, I mean, were you expecting it to be easy?” 

“No. I don’t know. I knew it would be hard work, I just...” He lifts his head enough to rest his chin on the desk. “I didn’t expect to feel like I was constantly ten seconds away from catastrophic failure.” He blows out a breath and puts on a false cheer. “But, hey, fake it til you make it, right?” 

“Watch it, that’s how I’ve lived my whole life, and I’ll thank you not to criticize it.” 

He peeks up at her from his spot on the desk and cracks a smile. “How long until it starts to feel like you’ve hit the ‘make it’ part?”

There’s not much of an age gap between them, but sometimes around Rhys she feels ancient.

“I’ll let you know,” she says, and takes another drink. 

Rhys does, too, moving his head just enough to manage it. She settles back into his ergonomic office chair, rocks herself in it a little, swishes the whiskey around in her mouth. 

“Do you know why I’m here?” she asks eventually, when the silence has started to make her itch.

“You mean you weren’t just ‘in the neighborhood’?” Rhys smirks, then lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “To irritate me, I assumed.”

“Sasha asked me to come.” Fiona polishes off the last of her drink as he sits up in surprise. “Called me two days ago when she was on the road, like I said. She and Vaughn were getting worried. Said you were working too hard, that you weren’t yourself, that they couldn’t get through to you. Wanted me to give it a go.”

By the time she finishes he’s staring down at the desk, a look of guilt settling onto the lines of his face. He drums his fingers on his glass and runs his other hand through his hair.

“I… may have been kind of difficult lately,” he admits. 

Fiona sends him a look.

“Okay, okay, I’ve definitely been an ass,” he amends. He finishes his drink, too, and leans back, avoiding her eyes. “I don’t mean to be. It’s, but, you know, it’s a lot of pressure, the—the whole, childhood dream, culmination of my life’s work ...thing.” He shrugs like he’s trying to seem flippant, but his voice gets a little quieter. “I just really... don’t want to fuck everything up. Again.” 

He sounds pitiful and melodramatic. It doesn’t annoy her as much as it ought to. If anything, she feels a little surge of affection.

Gross.

“Look, I get it,” she says, and means it. “Atlas is important to you, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But there are other important things. And if that catastrophe you’re worried about ever happens, you’re gonna want people around. Trust me.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He nods for a little while, like he’s waiting for it to sink in properly. “You’re right.” 

“I often am.” She smirks. “And we’ve all seen you fuck up hundreds of things, so…”

Rhys rolls his eyes, but she can see the makings of a grin on his mouth. “Aw, Fiona, you say the sweetest things.” He stretches out too, propping his feet up onto the desk next to hers. “You know, I really haven’t seen you in forever. How’s Vault Hunting? Everything you dreamed? Shooting aliens to your heart’s content or, uh, whatever it is you actually do? Hey, what _do_ you actually do? Like, for real, not what you tell strangers so they’ll think you’re impressive—” 

Fiona ignores the question, along with its insinuations, and tips her flask into her cup, frowning when nothing comes out. 

“We need more alcohol,” she says.

“No, we don’t,” he starts to protest. “It’s—it’s the middle of the week, it’s not even happy hour, Fiona, I haven’t eaten all day, you’re going to get me drunk.”

But Fiona’s already hopped out of her chair and crossed the room, tugging him to his feet by the back of his collar. “Then we need alcohol and food.”

—

Rhys ends up drunk anyway, despite the fact that by the time they wind up back at his place he’s eaten enough to feed a small bandit camp.

“Lightweight,” she accuses, steadying him as he opens his own door.

“It’s because of the arm,” he tells her very seriously. “The—the missing bodyweight.” 

As if to prove the point—what point, exactly, Fiona’s not sure—he spends twenty minutes sharing increasingly unbelievable stories about college.

Fiona is just buzzed enough to play along.

Together they stumble as far as the sofa. Rhys settles at one end, she flops down across the rest of it, and after three failed attempts to shove her off, he lets her rest her feet in his lap. She settles back against the armrest, tipsy and warm and half-dozing while Rhys tells stories featuring binge-drinking and house parties and an unlikely amount of spontaneous applause from strangers. 

“...and I know you’re avoiding the question,” he says eventually, and the words don’t puncture the fog in her mind until he elbows her in the leg with his bony, gangly arm.

“Huh? What? What question?” she mumbles, stirring enough that the sofa creaks beneath her. “Never went to college.” She pauses. “Unless you count a Bachelor’s in ass-kicking from the school of hard knocks. Eh? Eh?”

Even with a drunk audience, that still only wins her an eyeroll. 

“Noooo, I mean earlier,” he explains, watching her with an expression way too self-satisfied for someone who just told a story about waking up fully dressed in a bathtub. “About Vault Hunting.”

Oh.

She waves one hand. “That was ages ago.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t forget.” He gestures to the port in his temple. “Mind like a steel trap.”

“Having hunks of metal in your brain is not what that expression means.”

“Still.” He nudges her again. “Come on. Where have you been? How come you haven’t visited more often? Sasha misses you.” Then, quieter: “We all do.”

Fiona shifts on the sofa, straightening her jacket and accidentally kicking him in the thigh as she does so. 

“There’s just a lot of... travel involved.” She jabs a finger in his direction. “And don’t turn this around, okay, I’m here because Sasha was worried about _you_ , because _you_ were too caught up in your work, so she asked me to come spend time with…” 

The puzzle pieces coalesce and click together. 

“Oh,” she says dumbly.

Rhys blinks, too, as his inebriated brain makes sense of it. “Did… did we both get played?” 

Fiona folds her arms and scowls at the floor. “Goddamnit, Sasha.” 

“Wow. She’s good,” says Rhys, impressed and bewildered all at once. “She… hey! Hey, no, you’re doing it again! Stop!” He raps Fiona’s calf with the back of his hand. “What’s going on? Spill.” 

Fiona groans loudly.

“C’mon,” he wheedles again. He grabs one of her knees and shakes, as if that’s somehow going to encourage her to talk. “ _Fi_.”

“All right, all right, stop manhandling me, sheesh!” She slaps his hand away, then turns her head. In the dark screen of the big monitor across the room, she catches her own reflection. “Vault Hunting is fine. Sometimes it’s even fun. But Vaults are few and far between, so you take odd jobs to keep busy—you know, the stupid, dangerous stuff people would rather pay others to do than risk doing themselves. That’s what I ‘actually do’ all day. It’s... fine.” 

Her reflection doesn’t look very convincing. His doesn’t look convinced. 

“That’s why we haven’t seen you?” he asks, and even if she couldn’t see the skepticism, she’d hear it in his voice. “Too busy doing other people’s dirty work?”

“Not... exactly.” She hesitates, nibbling her bottom lip, before she heaves a sigh that blows the red streak of hair out of her eyes. “I was going to come back when I had good stories, you know? Real ones. _Something_ to show for it, something a little more glamorous than delivering packages and getting rid of spiderant nests. Sasha’s having the time of her life and you’re building a company and Vaughn’s, like, a cult leader or something, and I’m... an errand girl with delusions of grandeur.” 

In the reflection on the screen, she can see Rhys frown. 

“Anyone who wants a real Vault Hunter doesn’t want me,” she admits. She musters up the courage to face him and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I was probably better off as a con. At least I was good at that.”

The look of concern on his face makes her want to crawl into a skag den and wait for death, so she looks away again, looks down at her hands, tugging idly at the cuff under her jacket.

“Hey, hey.” Rhys wraps his fingers around her wrist and she stills, determinedly avoiding his eyes. “I’ll be honest, Vault Hunting sounds like—like my worst nightmare, really, all the shooting and the running and the danger and the deadly creatures and the giant monsters that want to eat you and the, the general terror—”

Fiona raises an eyebrow and looks at him.

“—but if anyone’s cut out to keep up with all that, it’s you,” he finishes. 

It’s sweet—really, it is—and his grip on her wrist is gentle and reassuring. 

She shakes her head anyway. 

“Oh, please, you’ve met real Vault Hunters,” says Fiona. “I’m like the bargain bin knock-off.”

“What's wrong with that? Everyone likes a bargain,” he says. He lets go of her wrist but leaves his hand resting on her knee, which she doesn’t mind, actually. “If I was in the market for a Vault Hunter, I’d want you over any of them.”

She looks doubtfully at him, biting back a smile. “More than Athena?”

“Mmhm.”

“Zer0?”

“Well… I mean, they’re kind of in a league of their own, right?”

“Jerk,” Fiona mutters, and kicks his thigh gently with the heel of her boot, but Rhys grins at her, and she grins back. 

“Seriously though. You’re, like, the smartest person I know. I’d totally hire you to do terrible, dangerous things for me.”

“Flattering.”

They both laugh at that, but then his face does that thing where it turns frighteningly open and honest, a sure sign he’s about to say something that will make her feel awkward or embarrassed or both. Typically, any emotional conversation leaves her wanting to claw her own skin off. Even with Sasha it makes her ansty—too many years spent carefully constructing battle armour. As a survival tactic, it’s served her well. But this… 

Well, maybe it’s the alcohol, but this isn’t so bad.

She pokes him with her heel. “What?” 

“When we went into that Vault,” he starts, soft and sincere, “and then wound up teleporting into the middle of nowhere, like, a jillion miles away from where we started—”

“Uh, yeah, I remember.”

“—I was glad I was with you.” Suddenly he waves both hands like he’s caught himself. “Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I love Sasha and Vaughn, a lot, I do, but…” He lets his hands fall, and he shrugs, and there’s that earnest smile again. “I knew if anyone could get us back, you could.”

“You were terrified,” Fiona says, but she’s smiling, too. “You panicked for like, five hours.”

“Hey, so did you!” But the offense doesn’t last long. “But I was right. You got us back.”

“Because I had nine million dollars.”

“Okay, I mean, yes, that probably… definitely helped,” he concedes, and Fiona raises an eyebrow. “But you would’ve found another way if you had to. That’s what you do: improvise and problem solve.”

It sounds easy, when he says it like that. Much easier than “make shit up and hope for the best”, which is what it feels like, most of the time.

“Title of my memoir,” she jokes, but then she shrugs. “I always had a team. Sasha, and Felix… then you idiots. Now it’s just me. It’s…” 

Harder, she thinks. Lonely. 

“...different,” she says. 

He scoffs at that. “You’ve still got a team. You just need to ask.”

“You just said Vault Hunting was, and I quote, your ‘worst nightmare’.”

“Okay, I mean, I’m not gonna hunt spiderants for a couple hundred bucks. That sounds terrible. But if—if you ever need help or company or… whatever, I can think of at last three people and two robots who would do anything for you.”

The truly silly, mortifying thing of it all is that Fiona already knows this, _has_ known this since she arrived back on Pandora a million dollars poorer. Somewhere along the line, between kidnappings and Vault monsters and magic watches and surprise teleportation, you accept that maybe certain people are destined to be in your life for much longer than you’d ever predicted. Still, hearing someone say it...

There’s a warm feeling blooming in her chest that has nothing to do with all the whiskey she drank. 

“Anything except hunt spiderants,” she says.

“Well, _yeah_. Maybe just stop taking those jobs. Why do you even take those jobs? You can’t need the money. Are you just bored? ‘Cause there’s gotta be better things to do. Like _visit us_.” 

“Hmmm. You’re right. I’ll spend more time at Atlas.” She bites her lip, pretending to consider it. “Keep an eye on my investment, you know. Make sure everything’s going smoothly. Run a tight ship.” 

“Well… if you want.” He almost manages to sound like it’s not the worst idea he’s ever heard. “We could, uh, get you a formal role.”

“I can think of some. Queen. Supreme Leader. Commander in Chief.” She smirks as he fights back a grimace. “You’d love that.” She allows her smirk to fade into something softer. “But nah. I think you’ve got it under control.”

Rhys slouches down, resting his head against the back of the sofa. He almost looks relaxed, but for the way the corner of his mouth is pulled into a tiny frown. She’s about to tell him she was kidding about being queen, in case he missed that, somehow, in his drunkenness, but then:

“Uh, hey, Fi, can I ask you something?”

The instinct to be a smartass— _you just did, genius_ —is mitigated by the way he asks, vulnerable and hesitant. Instead she gives him a nudge of encouragement with her toe. 

“At work today, you said I needed to—to lighten up. You… you don’t think I’m like him, do you?” His voice is surprisingly somber and a little scared. “Jack, I mean. I, uh, I think about that a lot. Basically all the time. I mean, I don’t—I don’t try to be, I definitely don’t want to be, but I spent a long time trying to emulate him, and then—everything that happened, sometimes I think—I don’t know—maybe something seeped in, or…” 

He keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he speaks, away from her, uncharacteristically shy. Fiona has a very strong suspicion he’s never verbalized any of this before, and realizes with a pang that she must be the first person he’s asked this question. Is it because he’s scared of what Sasha or Vaughn might think, and Fiona’s esteem is a lower price to pay? Or is it because he trusts her to be honest, no matter the answer?

She pushes herself up on her elbows, then reaches for the crook of his arm. He startles at her touch and meets her eyes.

“Rhys,” she says gently, “that’s stupid.”

“Uh.” His eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Wow. Okay. Thanks…?” 

“Well, it is,” she insists, this time with a bit of a grin. “Do you think Jack would start a company to sell fruit and cheap prosthetics?” 

“Well—”

“Or worry that I’m not carrying enough water with me in the desert?”

“Um—”

“You’re a good person, Rhys. You care about people. Jack was a psychopath. You’re nothing like him.” She lets go of his arm and leans back, grinning wider. “Besides, you’ve got us to keep you in line. Happy to smack you down if you get too big for those tacky boots of yours.” 

“Right,” says Rhys, and despite the smirk he looks reassured. “A kind offer. Thanks.” 

“Any time.” 

Rhys yawns, purposefully stretching so his fingers come inches from her face before he burrows down into the sofa even more, his impossibly long legs stretched out straight against the carpet. Fiona wiggles until her head is nestled comfortably against the arm of the sofa, and then she yawns, too, and lets her eyes slip shut and her breathing even out.

“Y’know,” she says after a moment of quiet, eyes still closed, “if we leave tomorrow, we should be able to catch Sasha’s last show.”

Rhys makes a noise midway between a groan and a mumble that sounds something like “work”.

“Nope,” she insists. “You’re taking it off. In fact, as your boss, that's an order.”

“Mmmm, ‘d’be nice.” His voice is groggy and barely audible, the alcohol and the exhaustion catching up to him. “Should…” Another yawn. “...ask Yvette to… cover…”

Fiona cracks open one eye to find Rhys’ head lolled to the side, his eyes shut, his metal arm dangling over the edge of the couch. He looks like someone powered him down in the middle of a sentence. 

“Hey,” she objects, “go use your bed or I will.” 

But Rhys doesn’t move. Fiona contemplates making good on her threat, but after a moment she sighs, mumbles “asshole,” and turns to lay on her side. 

At least he won’t drool on her from there. 

—

Fiona wakes, a couple hours later, to roll over and return circulation to her arm, and finds Rhys has vanished from the end of the sofa. Instead, there’s a blanket draped over her and a glass of water, accompanied by two painkillers, sitting on the coffee table.

She downs the water and the painkillers quickly. In a few hours, she’ll wake up properly, and she and Rhys will share the long drive to Brightmere to meet up with Vaughn and see Sasha perform. Her stomach twists in excitement at the thought of everyone in one place again. She wonders where Loader Bot and Gortys are, and how quickly they could make the trip. 

Settling back down, she grabs the blanket—Atlas branded, of course—and runs her thumb along the hem. It’s been a long time since someone left her a blanket while she slept, and she’s reminded of the caravan. She recalls those first few nights with Felix after spending years taking care of Sasha on her own. How nice it had felt, having someone look after her, too. How grateful she'd been to have a family. 

She rolls to her other side and tugs the blanket up under her chin, smiling to herself. 

Pandora will take as much from you as it can. Everyone knows that, especially Fiona. But sometimes, if you’re very lucky, it gives back, too.


End file.
